Disillusionment of Denial Part I: Joseph
by The Pearl Red Knight
Summary: In the dark depths of the human soul, lays a state of consciousness in which all things, both sublimly good and malevolently deprived, are possible. This is a tale of an excursion to this world of endless possibilities.
1. Disclaimer

DISCLAIMER

I do not own Silent Hill and any of its dark aspects. They all belong to Konami and its developers. I do own all of the characters in the story and their backgrounds and personalities. Also...THIS IS NOT MY OWN WORK. My brother asked me to publish his tale of characters who stumble onto the deserted town filled with their own nightmares. I merely upload and sometimes edit.

Hani-chan


	2. Prologue

**Prologue**

There are things that some people should never see. There are some places where the average individual should never set foot. There are experiences that once had, become memories forever burned onto the inside of a person's eyelid, eternally haunting the darkness as one would try to close their eyes and sleep.

A reasonable person would tell themselves that what they had just been a part of could not possibly be real. One could surmise that a sane individual would be able to decipher between the worlds of reality and illusion. It could even be said that a normal person could never have experienced the circumstances that have befallen the victim of perpetual agony that reality would seem to have become.

Was the end really worth the means that had been used to pursue it? Would the catch ultimately make the chase worthwhile, or would everything end up being in vain? There have been major strides toward bringing the world together in these past couple of years. How could reality, or whatever this was, have fallen into disarray in such a short amount of time? More importantly, could the pieces of the puzzle that was existence ever be put back together correctly?

As Joseph slowly made his way down the narrow back alley, many of these thoughts raced through his already clouded mind. He couldn't help it; he felt as if everything that has happened so far had somehow been a terrible nightmare from which he could not seem to work. He could see the end of the alleyway up ahead. It seemed the only way to progress further would be the rusty, green-tinted metal door to his left. Reaching for the handle, he once again closed his eyes and tried to wake from this dream gone terribly wrong. Clenching the pistol in his right hand, he opened the door, remembering the events that had preceded this moment...


	3. Chapter 1

Chapter One

_Imaginary evils soon become real ones by indulging our reflections on them. _**-John Ruskin**

The landscape surrounding the road that led across the countryside could not have been more beautiful. As Joseph drove through the state in which he called home, he remembered what had first brought him here to Colorado. After graduating with a BA in Criminal Justice from the University of Nebraska, he applied for a job with the Colorado State Police. His dreams of working with the FBI had been crushed when he failed the entrance exam. It was not a total failure, but it was the kind of heart-breaking close-call that would destroy a person's spirit. Joseph decided even though he could not be a part of the FBI, he could still pursue a career in law enforcement. However, he would need to seek out a slightly less reputed department. After taking a short vacation in the Colorado mountainside as a junior in college, it seemed a good choice to serve a state with such beauty. It was a decision that he would thank himself for in the years following his move.

The mountains that rose high above parts of this state could leave a person feeling empowered and belittled at the same time. In his career as a criminal profiler, he needed such a constant reminder of the beauty in the world to keep him from becoming completely obsessed with the darker and more criminal elements of humanity. Joseph had just received a call about an apparent mass murder in the city of Boulder. He could not say that this was a place of familiarity, being that most of the crime that required his attention happened in Denver proper. It should have been a nice break from the ordinary, had this trip not been to profile the perpetrator of such a crime. While the details still eluded him, the words "mass murder" never described an atmosphere that was a favorable place to be, yet such was his job.

The classical music on the radio perfectly complemented the drive, yet somehow added a morbid tone given his destination and what would await him there. Chopin's Second Symphony in F Minor was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. Joseph glanced at the phone, only to cringe at the sight of the number on the caller I.D.

"Hello. How are you?" he calmly asked.

A slightly agitated female voice answered. "I'm fine. In typical fashion, you would forget to ask about your son."

A pain struck Joseph in his heart; it still killed him that she alone had custody of his child. "Look, Vanessa. If you had given me more than a couple seconds, then of course I would've asked about him."

The sting of the sigh that she let out cut him deep as she spoke, "Look, just don't forget about the support check. Tony has come down with a fairly bad cold, and the medical bills are piling up." With that she hung up. After everything that he had seen on the job, it was his ex-wife and son-or lack thereof-that really got to him.

The divorce was a hard-fought battle that left both parties with major losses. Joseph lost his only child in the custody battle, and his wife Vanessa had lost the main source of income in her life. Working as a museum curator's assistant PART-TIME, it was Joseph's law enforcement paycheck that had sustained them through their years of marriage. Ironically, it was also his work as a profiler that ultimately led to the demise of their relationship. After training one's self to become emotionally detached as to avoid the bulk of the impact that his line of work could have on a person's psyche, it became harder and harder to keep the job's many levels of stress from coming home with him. Now that he was alone and living in an apartment in Aurora, just outside of Denver, he could focus solely on his work. Although it still hurt not having anyone to talk to after an extremely brutal day, Joseph felt that it was all for the greater good. If he could help society as a whole by taking criminals off the streets, then he could put his own life on the back burner, for now.

Joseph put his glossy red Dodge Ram pickup into park in the street just outside of the crime scene. There were still four patrol cars surrounding the house as well as some unmarked vehicles down the street. A perimeter was already set up around the outside of the surburban home. Taped off from the outside world, it seemed that this crime scene existed in a time and space of its own. It was not the usual call that someone would place about a quiet area of the 'burbs, which only added to the shock of the crime. _No doubt the media will have a field day with this one, _Joseph thought to himself as he stepped under the police tape that sealed the house. The interior of the home screamed typical American family; all around the living room were pictures of a loving family, consisting of a mother, father, son and daughter. The father was trim and clean-cut, while the wife's photo cemented her place as a stay-at-home mom. The children had smiles plastered on their faces, the boy younger than his sister. Knowing his own situation, Joseph could not help but wonder if this could have been his future.

As he rounded the corner, a younger sickly-looking officer stumbled out of what was obviously the scene of the crime. Some time had passed since Joseph had heard the call about four bodies being found, yet the people in the house had still looked very affected by what they had seen. He wondered if what had taken place was bad enough to affect the officers in such a way as to not acknowledge his presence. As he stepped into the hallway, he soon realized why no one had notice him. He could smell it, stronger now yet still faint: the unforgettable and foul stench of death.

The first thing Joseph noticed when he stepped into the kitchen was the blood. It almost literally covered the entire area. The walls, ceiling, and floor had a carmine tint to them from the sheer amount that had been spilt. While Joseph knew that CSI had already come through and collected the bulk of the evidence, it seemed that one or two lagged behind, still trying to collect new pieces. Officers and agents from local and state police departments lurked just beyond the threshold of the opposite door, seemingly terrified to step inside. Admittedly, it was not the typical place of a profiler to be at a crime scene, but Joseph felt that to better understand the criminal, one had to truly understand the crime.

One of the investigators spoke out. "Who are you?"

He answered, "My name is Joseph Edelman. I'm a criminal profiler for the state."

The man simply answered, "Oh."

Joseph was used to not getting a very large amount of respect and admiration. That sort of praise was constantly fed to the detectives, the reason for which, he had not the slightest clue why. He shrugged off the attitude of the investigator, and continued to look around. It was like stepping into a blood coated nightmare. Pots, pans and other dishes were strewn about. Utensils and parts of china were embedded into the walls. Whatever happened here, there was a great struggle, that much was for sure. Joseph could not help but picture the various portraits in the front of the house as he though about what might have occurred here in the kitchen. He also noticed the strange writings on the wall. Done in large black marker, and half covered in blood, he could faintly make out words among the dizzying symbols and markings. "Clouded?" Joseph asked himself. He could hardly read it, but he was guessing another set of words spelled out, "No Voice". Along with the cryptic madness, these seemingly random words only added a sense of pure insanity that encompassed this room. Joseph had to leave before he fell victim to this atmosphere of macabre. There was work to be done. Any good officer knows not to get emotional about an assignment, but seeing a family cut down like this, Joseph could not help but feel obligated to help in the catching of the monster that had ended the lives of four innocent people.

Pulling up to the local police station, the stench of decay had finally left Joseph's nose, and for that, he was grateful. He stepped out of his truck and proceeded into the station. There was a hustle and bustle about the place that was a refreshing wake up call from the nightmare of the morning. As he watched officers walking in and out of rooms and cubicles, eagerly going about their day, Joseph was reminded of the excitement that overtook him when he first signed up for the job. Knowing the hours that he had put in as a rookie , right out of the academy, to further the cause of the greater good was a constant reminder of why he had gotten into police work in the first place. Everybody comes onto the job, hoping and expecting to better the world and save humanity from itself. The stark realities of the job start to sink in as those huge ambitions begin to slowly fade away. It soon became a job like any other, except with occasional opportunities to make a difference in the lives of a few people interrupted by rare but harsh seconds of pure terror. _Those few people that I did help, were the ones that made the job worthwhile, _Joseph thought to himself. He made his way to the third floor of the station to speak with the homicide detectives that were working on the case. He wondered how they would be handling the case as the officers at the scene were clear in states of shock. The hallway leading to the detectives' offices was adorned with various awards on the wall with times of training, various accomplishments and promotions from superior officers. _It seems as though we have us a model student,_ thought Joseph to himself.

Opening the door, Joseph heard music coming from the office. It was the brooding sounds of blues that eminated from within. "No knock?" rasped a voice.

"Sorry about that," Joseph replied.

"Who are you and what do you want?" the officer behind the desk asked.

"My name is Joseph Edelman, and I am a profiler for the state."

"Ahh...you must be here about the murder this morning in Boulder. I was wondering when you would show up. Sit down."

Joseph sat in a surprisingly comfortable chair.

"My name is Gilbert Phillips," the man said. "**Sergeant **Gilbert Phillips."

Joseph looked around the room for a second and noticed more items of praise on the walls like he'd seen before. He took a breath and spoke. "I need information about the case this morning. Any clues or evidence that I should know about?"

"Well, most of the evidence is in the lab right now. I shall get it to you as soon as possible. I can let you see some of the crime scene photos, though. The remains, however, are still in the morgue." Phillips handed Joseph a file, and at the same time let a look of fear spread across his face for merely a second. A normal human being would not have picked up on this. However, in his line of work, Joseph was used to reading people. Phillips asked in earnest, "Can you please not look at them here? There is an empty office right next door. Feel free to use it. Now I must be off. Business, you see. Will you be all right around here?" Joseph nodded. Phillips smirked and said, "Good luck."

Joseph stepped into the empty office adjacent to Sergeant Phillips'. It seemed as though it had previously been used by another officer but had been recently vacated. There was nothing left on the walls besides a simple clock. A desk, smaller in size than Phillips' stood in one corner of the room. As Joseph sat down in the chair, he threw the file on the desk. He closed his eyes and thought to himself, _What could these photos show that could shake a sergeant up so bad? More importantly, do I really want to look at a scene that could affect them so? _Joseph slipped the pictures out of the file slowly and realized the answer to the latter question was a resounding _no._

Joseph had never laid eyes on such a scene in his life. There had been many terrible crime scenes that he had the unfortunate duty to look upon, but seeing the content of this file made anything else look like a lovely sunrise in comparison. He found it hard to decipher what he was looking at, but once he did figure it out, it did nothing to calm his nerves. The body that he guessed was the father's, by size alone, had lacerations so jagged it must have been a very dull blade that had done the cutting. There did not seem to be any type of precision to the cuts and that usually ruled out a murderer in any profession in which a knife is used, be it butcher or doctor. One of the father's feet was missing, cut off likely, as was his left hand.

He looked at the next picture, which showed a small girl impaled upon what seems to be a wooden pole, sharpened on one end and measuring about two feet in length. Her body was covered in bruises, most notably of which were the ones on her throat and face. She lay half-slumped over a chair, her upper body resting where one would normally sit.

The next photo showed the father again, from a different angle. His eyes were open and had a look of terror in them. As Joseph stared into the eyes of this man, he could sense the utter shock and horror that he must have felt while this horrid crime was occurring.

The next photo stuck out to Joseph the most. A young boy was stuck to a wall, secured in place by a large jagged piece of metal through his throat. If Joseph did not know any better, he would have guessed that his death had occurred by accident, with shrapnel from an explosion claiming this child's life. Another detail about this picture quickly ruled out that unlikely theory. The boy's head was wrapped in some kind of plastic bag. This reminded Joseph of one of the more disturbing crime scenes he had investigated, in which a teenager had his throat slit and then been wrapped in plastic and stuffed under his own house. Even that crime scene memory could not pull him away from the next picture.

It was a photo of the mother. She had been blindfolded and lay spread-eagle across the floor, completely disemboweled. Again, the lacerations across her midsection were very jagged. Her innards had been spread all about her which indicated that they did not accidentally spill out when she was slashed; they were pulled out. Joseph had seen enough. He now had ideas about the person he was dealing with. Now he needed to reflect in the crime, and study the evidence that would be sent to him. But first, a trip to the forensics lab was needed.

* * *

With an upset stomach churning both from hunger and the aftereffects of what he had just seen, Joseph opened the door to the forensics laboratory. He thought to himself, _These doors really should be locked. _Inside there were many forensic specialists hard at work on pieces of evidence. Everything from the usual guns and knives to car parts and computers. He stopped to ask a rather skinny younger man about any evidence from the case this morning.

The man spoke. "Oh, Miranda is working on some of those items over there," he said as he pointed to a corner section of the lab. Joseph saw a middle-aged woman studying a piece of what looked like a plate.

As he walked up to her, she asked him, "Who are you? What are you doing in here?"

He answered, "My name is Joseph Edelman, a profiler signed to the Hutchmans' murders."

She picked up the large, broken shard of china and said, "Well, this should interest you, then. This is your murder weapon, at least one of them." It was not a unique thing to find someone a victim of a ceramic knife, but it was rare outside of older prison stories. After seeing a few more pieces of evidence, Joseph had the knowledge he needed to begin his profile of the killer. He left the station and headed for home.

After stopping at a local diner for a quick bite to eat, he headed for his apartment. He'd lost the house to Vanessa in the divorce; she in turn lost it to overdue mortgage payments. Joseph resided in a fairly decent sized apartment, in a quiet complex. He had not really furnished it very well, not being home most of the time. All of his possessions did adorned to three rooms, however. A respectable sized music and book collection lined the wall bookshelf along with various DVDs. He did have a fairly large plasma that he enjoyed watching his Denver Broncos on. He kept his refridgerator mostly stocked with meats, vegetables, fruits, and beer. There was nothing quite like a juicy steak complemented by a cold one to make the usual Sunday afternoon of watching the Broncos play that much better. His bedroom was barely decorated, and would seem very empty had it not been for his queen-sized bed and dresser. Joseph grabbed some towels from a stack of laundry he had neglected to put away and hopped into the shower.

It seemed as though the various scenes of the day had caused Joseph to sweat more than usual, and as the warm water ran over him he began to feel refreshed. He cherished his shower time as it helped erase the memories of the day that so often came with police work. As he was pouring some shampoo into his hand, he heard the doorbell ring. Jumping out clad only in a towel, he thought, _It would be Nessa who would bother me like this. I wonder what she has to say._

He looked out the peephole and saw no one. He opened the door to a usual, quiet Aurora evening. Looking around, Joseph saw and heard nothing. As he was closing the door, he looked down to see a vanilla envelope. Picking it up, he noticed it did not have any label. _I wonder if Phillips found some new evidence, _he thought as he opened the folder. The first piece of paper that Joseph pulled out seemed to be blank until he turned it over. What he saw written in large messy handwriting made his eyes widen and sent an odd shiver down his spine. There were only two words written.

_Silent Hill. _


End file.
